


The Shell House.

by kingofthe_nightvoid



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 1990, Bill is sad, Character Study, Mr and Mrs Denbrough, Multi, Sharon Denbrough - Freeform, Tags Are Hard, Zack Denbrough - Freeform, tw child death, tw child neglect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 19:56:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingofthe_nightvoid/pseuds/kingofthe_nightvoid
Summary: “Many houses were uninhabited in Derry, many had lost their heart and soul, leaving behind but a carcass of the glory days. However, this house wasn’t open for junkies, hobos and rodents, for it was still occupied.”--Aka! A terrible study of Bill, two years post Georgie's death.





	The Shell House.

Bill took a deep breath as he set a tentative hand upon the painted, wooden door of the room that once housed little Georgie Denbrough. Much like the rest of the house, the room was a blank shell of what it once was. Once full of life, the home of the relatively young family had aged exponentially over the last few years—much like William’s parents. The house was shy of peace before the fall of 1988, as the two brothers would play, tumble and laugh, with Bill’s few friends sometimes joining the ruckus. Zack and Sharon would watch, playfully scalding, keeping a true eye upon them just to make sure nothing went too far. Zack had always been a firm but fair man, trying his damnedest to make sure his boys grew into good men. He was like young George’s room now—empty, lifeless. Now, the house groaned and creaked, often sitting dimly lit and unloved. Many houses were uninhabited in Derry, many had lost their heart and soul, leaving behind but a carcass of the glory days. However, this house wasn’t open for junkies, hobos and rodents, for it was still occupied. A silent trio, two adults simply ghosts of a life once known. Nobody spoke in the Denbrough house anymore. Whole days would pass without a single word being spoke, without a family meal being cooked. 

As Stuttering Bill pushed the door open with a tentative moment, he noted all these things, the thick list of changes weighing upon him like he’d been doused in glue. Hands curling into pensive fists, the teenager remembered telling a joke once. It hadn’t been his own joke; Richie was the funny one of the group, Bill would simply parrot. Words bleeding together, into trips and stumbles, the joke was told, met with complete silence. Mr and Mrs Denbrough continued silently eating, not looking up at William. It wasn’t until the boy stood to put his plate in the sink did Sharon stir, breaking the frosty silence. ‘Did you say something, dear?’ She had questioned of her husband, licking her bitten lips. The man shook his head. Silently, Bill had slipped upstairs, trying not to cry—he could never let them see him cry again. He hated crying, and that was something Bill drilled into himself as he stepped inside Georgie’s room.

It had rarely changed. Almost two years later, nothing much had changed, the Lego turtle was gone (Bill had accidentally broken it during the Losers’ time against Pennywise), and the bedding had been changed. It was always changed, once a week. Therefore, the room only really smelt like washing now. It could’ve been a laundry room, for the life had been bleached away. Billy had been in here since that fateful fall, only a small number of times mind you. Yet it still hurt. Every time he ached, guilt and loneliness becoming further ingrained. Cautiously taking a seat on the bed, Bill made sure he didn’t cause too much noise, he couldn’t bare to watch his father work himself into a broken frenzy. 

Exhaling, Bill picked up a stuffed bear from the small pillow. He handled it as one would handle glass, terrified it would crumble into nothingness at the slightest false move. Stroking the pad of his thumb against the bear, Bill studied the bear, noting each fix stitch, each residual stain and half formed tear. It burned. Each memory of each injury to the toy burned his memory, burned behind his eyelids as they played. Soon enough, Billy screwed his eyes shut tight, in the hopes the memories would stop. All it truly did was somewhat halt the tears that would eventually spill from his eyes. His grip became a little tighter as he began to think too much, think too fast. The bear no longer felt quite like a bear, and more...like a raincoat, like George’s yellow, torn, blood stained raincoat. The scent of death lingered everywhere in that sewer, and even now it was cloyingly clinging to Bill’s memories. Even now when he thought of those sewers, Bill’s throat would tighten, bile would sting as it threatened to claw its way into the boy’s mouth. “I’m sorry.” He murmured as his voice fell thickly into the nothing. “I’m s-suh-horry.” He said again, with more force this time. His eyes snapped open, as he had a chilling feeling something may be watching him. Or maybe that was just the residue of the sewer crawling down his spine once more. “S-sorry, Juh-Juh...shit...d-dammit Juh-Georgie!” Bill spat out, face twisting into a portrait of malcontent, cheeks flushed and eyes watery. He hated his stutter. His mother hated his stutter. The months after Georgie’s death, Bill had tried and tried to gain control of it again, because he saw the distaste burn behind those dead eyes when he even tried to speak. Maybe, he reasoned, if I can speak to her normally, she’ll realise I’m there again, he’d often theorised. Of course, that never worked. It would actually take years of speech therapy to truly stump the impediment. It hadn’t been so bad before It happened. Before that October day. It’d been very mild, rarely noticeable, the root cause being brain damage from a car accident as a small child. Why did people have to be so fragile?

With a degree of force largely unneeded, Bill wiped away his tears, the tracks remaining on his face as he set the bear back down. With a shaking hand, he removed the creases from the bedding, scrubbing at his eyes, almost as if to remove the emotion from them. He always wanted to say more, to spend more time in the empty room, but gravity was almost crushing, death lingering. So he just...couldn’t. Add that to the list of guilt, he supposed. Like a mouse, Bill walked back to the door, glimpsing flashes of memories brightly coloured and light, during what seemed like a past life ago. Exhaling heavily in time with the reluctant closing click of the door, William stretched a little. He felt trapped, tightly coiled. His mouth tasted like puke and his hands felt dirty, making his gritty eyes feel even worse. Once cleaned up, he’d find company some how, Bill reassured himself. Just to escape the shell house.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again for reading! Sorry this is so,,bad  
I’m so tired and I’m honestly about to go to sleep!  
Feel free to comment, or tell me what I can do better!


End file.
